There Are Thirteen Sides to Every Story - An Augustus Waters Fanfic
by faithliesinme
Summary: Augustus Waters' story in thirteen different perspectives. Mr. Waters; Martha; Mrs. Waters; Isaac; Mr. Lancaster; Mrs. Lancaster; Peter Van Houten; Julie; Dave; Chris; Patrick; Kaitlyn; Lidewij Vlirgenthart. Thank you for reading.


**There Are Thirteen Sides to Every Story**

He's been unconscious for hours now. I know it's coming. I'm ready for it to come. And yet still - miraculously - I break down when I hear the flatline.  
There are only two other people in the room with me, not counting my son's de-

Ahem.

Cindy, and Gus's sister Julie are in the room with me. Martha went upstairs for a cup of coffee - she'll be upset she missed his final moment. My sons-in-law are at the house with their kids. Little boys should never see their uncle's de- Ah. Still body.

The women in the room are crying, but I'm not (though I should be, really), I'm running through my head the people I should tell. The people I should thank. The people I should _respect_.

We haven't been alone in this, not once. We've felt alone. Plenty of times have we felt alone. But when I get down to it, there were so many people. So many people praying for us. So many people thinking about us. So many people there for us.

As I look at him, at my son's dead body, I begin to think that maybe I should stitch "In The Darkest Days, The LORD Puts The Best People Into Your Life" on a pillow after all.

I finally start to cry.

•

I walk into the room, cup in hand. Everyone's crying. Everyone's broken. Everything is silent.

"He's gone, Martha," Julie screams. Maybe it's not a scream, but it's so earth-shattering.  
My baby brother.

And I missed it. I missed his last minute.

"Did he say anything?"

"No." Mom is crying silently, somehow calmly. I want to go over there and hug her, but I can't. I can't move. I can't talk. I can't even feel the hot coffee seeping into my shoes.

Finally, Mom says, "I should call some people." Finally, I collapse into a chair. Finally, I cry.

•

"I'm so sorry, sweetie," my words come out in blurred tears. Of course, Hazel is the first person I call. Of course, she is the first person that deserves to know. He loves- excuse me - ...her. And she him.

"I'm sorry too," if she was crying, I couldn't hear it.

"He didn't say anything. I'm not even sure he knew it would be tonight. He was unconscious for a couple hours, but it felt like forever."

"I'm sorry," she says again. I guess she doesn't know what to say. Neither do I. I hang up.

I look over at him again. I need to call the pastor. But, I need to look at him. And I need to look at him more.

His face is pale. His eyes are closed. He just _looks _cold. And he's not even there...

I allow one last thought consume my mind.

Dear God, I won't be a mom anymore.

•

"Isaac?"

"Hazel?" I close my eyes. I know the answer even before I ask the question. "He's gone?"

A released sob is my only answer. She must've been holding it in for a while.

"No."

"Yes."

"Curses." Curses? I don't know. It's the first thing I can think to say, so I say it. "Curse life. No. Curse God. Where are the godda- No. All I can hear now is his too sexy for his own good voice telling me not to swear in the Literal heart of Jesus. Where are the trophies to break when you need them?"

She makes a sound that's kind of a laugh inside of a sob, and then she hangs up. But at least she laughed first.

I let the phone slip between my fingers.

•

It's hard. It's hard to watch my daughter like this. It's hard to watch her cry and have to keep my own tears in at the same time.

I can't do it anymore so I ask if she wants to be alone. To my relief she nods.

Her mother tells her, "We'll be right outside the door."

So we go right outside the door, and we just stand here, and we listen to her cry, and I allow myself to cry, and when I can't take it anymore I take my wife's hand and pull her to the couch to watch some TV.

I want to distract myself but I don't even know what this show is. And besides, no matter how hard I try, I can't get the idea out of my head that one day soon this will. All. Be. My turn.

•

Her father has stopped crying by the time she comes out of her room. And she just sits next to me and stares blankly at the TV.

"Hazel." She barely even flinches. "What can we do for you?"

She shakes her head and I watch as the tears flood in again.

"What can we do?"

She shrugs.

My heart is breaking. "Please, sweetie," my voice is on the verge of begging. "Please tell us what we can do."

And then, slowly, she crawls the few inches to my lap and leans her head against my shoulder.

Her dad moves around me and hugs his arms around her legs.

And we just hold her there. We hold her until the sun is setting.

•

I'm barely coherent. Coherent. What a funny word. But I promised a boy something and I'm not going to let him down. The page is loading. And then it's there.

_Seventeen year-old Augustus Waters passed just hours ago after a lengthy fight against Osteosarcoma. Her parents asked to not be quoted, but they have reported that the funeral will be held this Saturday. Time and location to follow._

I let out a curse and slap my drink across the room. He wasn't supposed to die. He was too young to die. He wasn't supposed to receive the same fate as my dear Anna.

I shake my head. Am I actually crying.

I have to get things ready. I have to book airfare, a rental car, a hotel. I have to get a tux. I have to clean myself up. At least a little. I have to come up with an answer for Hazel. I have to attend the funeral.

•

The funeral. I didn't want to come. I didn't want to write a speech. But here I am. Late. But here. The preacher is already talking and I only have a few minutes to get ready. Sure I have to sit through Isaac, and Will (a boy I only knew from one of Gussie's basketball games) and Hazel, but each of their speeches seem only seconds long as I look over mine again and again and again.

And finally. It's my turn.

I stand and approach the podium slowly. I'm not ready. I'll never be ready. I release a nervous laugh. I'm holding on to the podium so tightly.

"Martha and I were eight when our dad married his mom. Three years later they gave us Gu-" I cleared my throat. "This is so hard. I'm not going to be able to do this very well."

I catch sight of Hazel in the audience. I don't know her very well, but I do know her. And her speech was so beautiful. If she can do it, so should I.

I stumble through the rest of my speech, not remembering what I wrote, but talking about Gussie's later years rather than his earlier years. He was such an amazing kid and he fought the good fight hard. He will be missed. He will never be forgotten. Those are some of the things I say until I can't say anything anymore and I finally sit back down.

•

The New Partner. That's the song Gus had picked out. It's such a sad song. I wish he had chosen a happier song. But that's the song he chose, so that's the song I played.

•

The Bank of America is a respectful enough company, but two weeks is all they give you when a family member passes, and two weeks is all I got.  
I walk to my car after an extremely stressful work day. Gus's funeral was only yesterday. I can't even remember the last time I slept.  
I had to leave my wife and kids in Indianapolis. They weren't ready to come home yet, and I understand, but as the hours turn to days and even to weeks, I continue to think of a statistic I wish I didn't know. Sure, the statistic refers to the _parents _of the dead child, but still, she's there, and I'm here. And we are not together.

•

"I wish I would just die, Patrick. Do you ever wish you would just die?"

"Yes. Yes, of course. So why don't you?"

"I don't know."

"In the hopes that you'll get better?"

The pause is so short, but to me it feels like an eternity. To me, I'm able to think a million thoughts in the pause. I think about her. About how she must be feeling. I think about the relationship she had with Augustus. It really was beautiful. I think about her relationship with the world. The universe. I think about how I can't fail this girl as a mentor. And then she turns away.

"No. No, it's not that. I really don't know."

•

I can't believe it. I'm reading the words on the screen and I can't believe it.

How had I not known earlier? How had I not been there for her?

I look at my clock. She should be at that therapy group thing. By the time she gets home it'll be too late. I sigh. I'll have to wait till tomorrow to be there for her.

I'll have to call her.

"Just calling to check in, see how you're doing."

"Yeah, thanks, I'm doing okay."

She sounds out of breath. I don't know what to say. I decide to take the Unbelievable Route. "You've just had the worst luck, darling. It's _unconscionable_."

"I guess."

I can't believe (Unbelievable Route, I told you) I'm about to say this. But I have to know. "So what was it like?"

"Having your boyfriend die? Um, it sucks."

A kick to the gut.

"No. Being in love."

"Oh. Oh. It was... it was nice to spend time with someone so interesting. We were very different, and we disagreed about a lot of things, but he was always so interesting, you know?"

"Alas, I do not." I feel better. The conversation feels natural now. "The boys I'm acquainted with are vastly uninteresting."

"He wasn't perfect or anything. He wasn't your fairytale Prince Charming or whatever. He tried to be like that sometimes, but I liked him best when that stuff fell away."

"Do you have like a scrapbook of pictures and letters he wrote?"

"I have some pictures, but he never really wrote me letters. Except, well there are some missing pages from his notebook that might have been something for me, but I guess he threw then away or they got lost or something."

"Maybe he mailed them to you."

"Nah, they'd've gotten here."

I sigh, because I know that what I'm about to say will hurt her. I say it anyway, "Then maybe they weren't written for you. Maybe... I mean, not to depress you or anything, but maybe he wrote them for someone else and mailed them-" I stop, because she makes a strange noise that sounds vaguely like a cough. "Are you okay? Was that a cough?"

"Kaitlyn, I love you. You are a genius. I have to go." And then she hangs up.

I sit and stare at the phone for a while. I feel sorry for my friend. She deserves a good life and she's just not- She's just not getting it.

•

_I believe Augustus Waters sent a few pages from a notebook to Peter Van Houten shortly before he (Augustus) died-_

The laptop slips from my lap and slams shut, the noise loud in my hollow heart.

Augustus Waters. Dead? I cannot believe it. He was such a good boy and he loved Hazel so very much. There are many things he did not do. Many years he did not live. Many choices he did not make. And when I think about it- The choices, that is what I would miss the most should my life end shortly.

He made some good ones, choices. He based the last days of his life on somebody else. He lived the last days of his life _for_ somebody else. He was somebody's vigilante.

I hope he liked his choices.

•

_I do._


End file.
